


take a leap down a wishing well

by The-Immortal-Moon (LunaKat)



Series: The Fault In His Automail (EdWin Week 2020) [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cat Edward Elric, Crossover, EdWin Week 2020, F/M, Inspired by InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale, Prompt Fic, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23986027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaKat/pseuds/The-Immortal-Moon
Summary: For EdWin Week 2020. Day 3: Your Choice (AU/Crossover)Once upon a time, a girl from the future met a boy living in the past.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Winry Rockbell
Series: The Fault In His Automail (EdWin Week 2020) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726453
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	take a leap down a wishing well

**Author's Note:**

> ...why in the hell is there a Cat!Ed tag? Actually, never mind. I don't need to know.
> 
> Anyway. Happy 503 Day everybody! Anyone remember last year when I said I was a sucker for AUs? Because that's still true now and the prompt was "Your Choice" and I honestly could not stop myself. I apologize in advance.

“ _There_ you are,” comes a shout from above. “You’re _late_ , woman!”

Frowning, Winry Rockbell shades her eyes and peers up. A small square of blue sky, gauzy sunlight raining down from above—interrupted by a dark, hazy shadow. The noonday sun perches firmly behind a head crowned by two triangular points, a shining corona wreathing golden hair. Exasperation twists her mouth into a frown at the sight.

She plants her hands on her hips. “Can’t you even wait until I climb out of the well first?”

One of the triangles twitches. Irritable grumbling flutters down to meet her as the shadow reluctantly retreats from view.

Honestly. She _just_ got here.

* * *

The story goes like this—

Once upon a time, there was a magic well that nobody knew was magic. It was tucked away in the far corner of Risembool, half-shadowed by the forest canopy and bleached by dappled sunlight. The wood was old and smooth beneath wandering palms, smelled of times that had long since passed before they could become reality, and its power laid dormant within its steep descent.

One day, a girl slipped down into that darkness. There was machine oil on her palms and metal glittering in her ears as she fell through the universe’s starry fragments. When she surfaced, gasping and dizzy, the world was world five-hundred years before she knew it.

This was a world of warring states, before those belligerent patches of territory were pieced together beneath the united banner of Amestris. In this world, magic still surged through the land like a wild heartbeat and thunderous pulse. With that heady thrum in the soil, beings born of starlight and shadow known as “daemons” had the freedom to walk the earth alongside mortals—and despite their name, they were no more the incarnation of vice than humanity is the incarnation of virtue.

These beings worked behind the scenes of myths, concocted great epics from mundane tales and heroism from the ordinary. While knights avowed themselves to the services of kingdoms and princes vied for the hands of beautiful maidens, daemons breathed wonder into the world. When they blended the budding innovations that humans created with their own occult arts, something new was born.

Alchemy. What is legend now was reality then, and those who wielded it knew of the terrible might within their palms. It was nature incarnate, the push and pull, Equivalent Exchange, and—much like the creatures who invented it—those who crossed it tasted its wrath.

None knew this more than the boy who spent fifty years sound asleep inside a magic forge.

Once upon a time, there was a half-human boy whose story began with death and desperation and defiance, only to be rocked by defeat. When all hope was lost, he learned of a magic gemstone with the heavens throbbing beneath its crimson facets and the power to make real the heart’s most impossible desires. And so he sought it, even knowing of the fearsome guardian charged with its protection, residing in the sleepy hills of Risembool-before-it-was-Risembool.

The guardian was a now-dead woman with the power to make steel sing beneath her fingers, and her veins hummed to the same tune as the girl from the well—for the ancient rites of ancestry and kinship bound them so. This guardian saw the golden boy, too tenacious and too desperate for his own good, and she locked him away before he could destroy himself.

Once upon a time, a girl from the future met a boy living in the past. She was charged with protecting a crimson stone that ended up shattered across the realm and he agreed to help her piece it back together so he could mend a past mistake.

But that was merely _once_ upon a time. The story is far from over.

* * *

The world that greets Winry when she emerges from the well is green and gold. A forest so endless and deep that she could drown in it, if she isn’t careful enough, and sunlight that slants in through an emerald canopy to tickle her face with its warmth. When she breathes in, the fresh air is bliss to her lungs.

With a great heave, she hoists her backpack over her shoulder and over the lip of the well’s wooden frame, where it lands in the grass with a heavy _thump_. It is near-bursting with all the essentials than she’s packed into it—with the recent lead they have on Father’s whereabouts, she’s not expecting to be making many return trips back to her own time, so she thought it best to stock up on the long journey ahead. Lucky for her that she’s used to heavy lifting, otherwise she probably would have been squashed flat.

“What the hell is _in_ that thing?” comes a voice to her right.

Edward Elric, sitting there leaning against the well-frame, pins her bag with a look of befuddled amazement, always baffled by her sheer ability to heft such an enormous burden. There is something particularly wary about the look in his eyes now, as though he’s imagining her collapsing beneath the pack in a crunch of tangled limbs.

“Medical supplies, mostly,” Winry says, swinging her legs over well. “But also clothes, some toiletries, food— _yes_ , I got you smoked jerky.”

The annoyance on his face gives a mighty quiver. “Is _that_ why you’re three hours late?”

“Among other things,” she replies smoothly.

A huff leaves him, and he folds his arms petulantly, but doesn’t otherwise comment.

Rising to her feet, Winry turns to study him for a moment. In the dapple of forest shadow, he casts a figure of fire-rat crimson and honey gold. When they first met, she was surprised by the fact that he looked so close to her age, and she had been so dumbfounded by this that, at first glance, she almost missed the telling traits of inhumanity.

Up close, it’s impossible to ignore—feline ears crown his scalp, furry and dusty yellow lined with black. Inky rosettes smatter through the braid of his thick, fur-like golden hair and then reach out to dust his cheekbones like freckles. Those eyes that look hazel from afar are lurid saffron close up and are interrupted by slitted pupils. Even the way his mouth twists unhappily betrays a fanged eyetooth that pokes out from between his lips. Hidden beneath his gloves is one hand of steel and another of flesh that sports hooked, opaque claws at the fingertips. All he needs is a tail and a sparse plume of white whiskers to complete the look, though he scowls in fierce displeasure whenever she remarks on that.

At the present, his scowl is wrought with impatience—but there’s a shadow there as well. Something dangerously close to brooding, dark and gloomy and less-than-pleased with himself. Not to mention the way he seems to avoiding so much as glancing her way. Hm, she’s only been gone for a couple days...

Grass whispers beneath the soles of her sneakers as she drops to a crouch before him, brows furrowed skeptically. “You didn’t bust your arm while I was gone, did you?”

That earns her the flash of his glare. “ _No_ ,” he retorts, defensive.

 _Very_ convincing. Winry holds her hand out. “Let me see.”

“I didn’t break it!”

“Then call it a tune-up.”

“But—”

“Just show me your arm, Ed.”

Grumbling less than pleasant things about her temperament and bedside manner, he unknots the cross in his arms in favor of rolling up one crimson sleeve of his fire-rat overcoat. The glitter of burnished steel greets her as he unceremoniously thrust the forearm out to her in a grudging acquiescence. She tries to ignore his grouchy demeanor—a feat she’s gotten better and better at with more practice—as she cradles the limb in her hands.

It’s not _really_ automail—not as she knows it, anyway. For one thing, the design is clunkier than the streamline models used in her time, betraying a certain medieval aesthetic, and it’s made with battle in mind, more weapon than limb. For another, the steel is wrought with the most beautiful swirling pattern that she’s ever had the pleasure of witnessing in any metal, a telltale remnant of an ancient forgery method that has long since been forgotten and that even modern cannot replicate (and oh, how _thrilled_ she was for the opportunity to learn the secret behind damask steel!). By some miracle alone, he’s managed to keep that pattern marvelously undisrupted every time he magics up (ah, excuse her, _transmute_ ) this marvelous masterpiece into whatever weapon he desires. Then there’s the glowing golden veins that threads through the seams of the stacked plating, where his inhuman power is woven into the mechanism itself. She can feel it, the traces of his own essence humming hushed beneath her fingertips as she examines the prosthetic.

On its own, something like this wouldn’t be able to function, would hang limp-heavy-useless off his shoulder. But her ancestor, the one who designed it, was privy to some secret that that let her sync the machine to one’s own life and weld it to the body as a literal, physical extension. And this, here, was her magnum opus—an arm powered by the essence of a half-daemon.

Maybe that’s why Ed is always so grumpy about tune-ups. When she’s searching the metal surface for dents and imperfections, she’s literally running her hands across an external piece of his soul.

“See?” he interrupts snappishly, suddenly snatching his arm back. As he tugs the sleeve back over the prosthetic, she can’t help but notice the color dusting his cheeks. It makes the rosettes spotting the skin beneath his eyes all the starker. “Not broken!”

Right. Sometimes she has to remind herself that routine maintenance, while just procedural to her, is an act of incredible intimacy to him.

“Not broken,” she agrees with playful solemnness.

He snorts, folding his arms again. But at least he wasn’t growling at her ( _actually_ growling, feline and raspy in the back of his throat) the whole time. So, it’s an improvement. Sometimes she wonders how in the hell her ancestor ever got him to sit still enough to attach the thing in the first place.

Not that she’s ever going to ask—even after it came to light that Envy was the one infected their friendship with malice and twisted their perceptions with betrayal, the subject of the Rockbell ancestor still remains touchy. Ed hasn’t even so much as told her the woman’s name, and any mention of her sends him into guilty throes. All she knows, so far, is that her ancestor made Ed’s arm and used to guard the Philosopher’s Stone and ran the magic forge that she ultimately sealed him in for fifty years. Fifty years that he left Al unattended and alone to wander the world, grieving over the belief that his only older brother had died.

Maybe one day, when Winry has learned enough about this whole ferrokinesis thing, she’ll make him a new arm. That way, he won’t be burdened with the reminder.

But for now, it’s time to change the subject. “So where are Mr. Mustang and Miss Riza?”

A snort leaves him, and the grumpiness on his face becomes more good-natured. “Well, the damn priest is off flirting, as per fricking usual. Dunno where Hawkeye is, but she’s probably gonna cut off his head when she finds him.”

Despite herself, Winry has to smother a smile. Knowing Miss Riza, that is _definitely_ a possibility.

When they first met the wandering cleric by the name of Roy Mustang, he hadn’t struck as the most, ah, _trustworthy_ of figures. He was all guarded smiles and flirtatious habits and smooth jabs that had Ed bristling constantly—but he was genuine when he spun his tale of the curse cupped in his palm. Since they allowed him to slot his way into their little ragtag group, his clever schemes and impeccable acting skills has made him rather invaluable.

Although, the same could be said for daemon-slayer Riza Hawkeye. When they first met, she was convinced that they were the ones responsible for destroying her home, and leaving her loyal dog as her only companion. But once the truth came to light and she reluctantly fell into step alongside them, it was suddenly hard to believe that they ever managed themselves without her strength and her dogged intensity at their side.

More than that, though—they’re _adults_. They, at least, have _some_ idea of what they’re doing.

“Yeah, that tracks.” She gives her spine a preparatory stretch as she rises back to her feet. “Alright, we should probably go find them before Mr. Mustang dies—oh. Hey, where’s Al?”

Tellingly, his ears flatten against his skull. “He... went to go get... something to eat.”

“Oh,” she says, blinking.

“He, uh, said he’d send a soul-collector ahead of him when he was done.”

“Okay.”

Well, that explains his gloomy mood, at least. No matter how many times Al has expressed that he doesn’t hold him responsible for what happened, Ed harbors enough blame for the both of them and then some. It probably doesn’t help that Ed got stuck in the forge for half a century, either.

The way Winry understands it is that, when their shared, human mother lost her life to a sweeping illness, the brothers were painfully young and painfully alone save for each other. Wide-eyed with fear, vision blurry with grief, it was only natural that they turned to the only thing in their lives that ever made sense to them—something that bound them together where even blood did not. Perhaps, to a child’s logic, it made sense. Only an adult would understand the fault in their logic, and hindsight was hardly forgiving.

Sadly, the alchemy which captured their hearts was not able to recapture their mother’s soul. Instead, that wonderous power betrayed them. It turned on the two so viciously that one did not make it. The other survived only by sheer virtue of a less-human lineage.

Wild with desperation to save his little brother, the survivor turned to a witch known for the power to forge bodies from clay and bones. For whatever reason, the witch agreed to his demand—but at a price.

Little brother left no bones behind. Big brother had to sacrifice his arm to make up the difference.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Winry offers, though it sounds even lamer coming out of her mouth than it did in her head.

His left ear twitches in acknowledgement, but his only response is a grunt. He peers out into the mazework of tree trunks and greenery as though searching for something.

Silent, she studies his profile. The rosettes curling across his cheekbones look almost like inky fingerprints someone dabbed across his coppery skin. His lashes are black despite his golden hair, thick and circling and reminding her vaguely of cheetah stripes. There’s a shadow fogging his gaze, dulling the brilliant amber of his irises with doubt and self-pity. Dark bruises linger beneath his eyes, and she wonders if she was the only one he was waiting up for.

Al tells the story as though Ed saved him from the brink of death.

Ed tells the story as though he damned his wholly-human little brother to an inhuman body of cold ceramic.

What’s done is done, now, however callous that may sound, and this is the way things are. The magic that forged Al’s vessel presumes human bones at the base—throwing a half-daemon’s marrow into the mix leaves the bond between the body and the soul less-than-stable. In order to combat it, Al needs to draw on wandering souls of dead to strengthen that tenuous connection, to keep his body mobile and free from crumbling.

They both hate it.

Stifling a sigh, Winry wanders back over to where her backpack lays discarded in the grass. The strap gives a groan beneath the mighty weight as she slings the burden over one shoulder. Ugh, her back is going to permanently bent by the time they finally fix the damn Stone. “Shall we head back to the village, then?”

For a moment, he doesn’t look inclined to so much as twitch a muscle, much less follow her back to Risembool-before-it-was-Risembool. But something on her face must persuade him, because a heavy sigh frees itself from him and he uncrosses his arms in favor of shoving his hands into his pockets. There’s no sign of improvement, though, when he rises to his feet, shoulders hunched almost as though in defiance to all things optimistic.

Her next sigh is audible as she heads for the village, Ed trailing after her.

Silence prickles uncomfortably between them, weights down on her collarbone more heavily than her backpack against her spine. With great effort, she resists the urge to glance his way—it would only irritate him, and the listless despondency clouding his face would just leave her grappling with guilt of her own.

This all started because she broke the Stone. It was an accident, of course—but that hardly matters, and the fact remains that it was her clumsy hands that left the all-powerful, wish-granting gemstone in a million different pieces. So, naturally, it became her responsibility to collect all the shards and fix what she broke.

Things only got more needlessly complicated from there. First came the jackal daemon with the X-shaped scar slashing pale across his dark face, harboring a hatred for all things human, who is likely still out there and waiting to strike them down at the right moment. Then came the foreign prince with _yaoguai_ servants at his beck and call, seeking immortality in order to secure his ascent to a throne across the desert. Next came a rogue knight with a propensity for lurid explosions and a casual disregard for all daemonic life and has been stalking their shadow with a sadistic lust for wanton destruction. And as it all that wasn’t bad _enough_ , the _real_ kicker came in the form of some guy calling himself “Father” who is a kind of artificially-created daemon-amalgamate known as a “homunculus” and leads offshoots of his own flesh as he, too, seeks to possess the Philosopher’s Stone—most pieces of which he’s already gathered up into a glowing red bloodstain in sickly white palm.

Then, just recently, the Philosopher’s Stones origins came to light, in all its gory, twisted, grotesque glory.

So yeah. Things... have not been going great.

Finally, she succumbs, peering through her periphery to where he ambles sluggishly behind her. The widening distance between them fills with dappled sunlight and shadow and silence that weighs thick with some unspoken defeat. Though his features are schooled into a more neutral expression, his ears are lowered dangerously close to his scalp and the hunch in his shoulders looks as though he were pushing back against some invisible burden. If he did have tail, it would probably be dragging across the grass.

She wonders if he and Al have been discussing what to do, now that the Stone’s vile nature has been revealed. They’re both too human to ignore such a thing.

So human, in fact, that she wouldn’t be surprised if Ed was spiraling into guilt over his past obsession. That’s the thing about Ed, really—he can never leave a grave untouched, can never just let the soil sit without pawing at it, expecting to find something other than what he already knows will be there.

No way. Not on her watch. “So. Apparently the villagers _like_ you now.”

One ear twitches in halfhearted acknowledgement. While he doesn’t exactly perk up, he does turn to face her, a guarded curiosity in his eyes. The green distance between them starts to shrink as she slows her pace.

“I mean, Miss Riza says they’re even leaving bowls of milk out for you. Isn’t that nice?”

“Be nicer if it was anything other than _milk_.” While his frown isn’t quite the reaction she’s looking for—it’s something. Like turning the keys in a crappy old car and wincing at those first few coughing sputters as the engine remembers how to work.

“And _what_ is wrong with milk again?”

“Milk is _disgusting_ ,” he huffs, just as he had a million times before. “It’s slimy, putrid white animal-juice that comes out of cow-parts. No _thanks_.”

She blinks at him in feigned confusion. “But... You’re _literally_ a _cat_.”

“ _Leopard_ ,” he corrects forcefully. But his eyes are starting to spark with a familiar indignation, one that briefly cuts through the gloomy shadow.

Rockbell, one. Self-loathing, zero. “I don’t really see a difference.”

“Don’t see a— _Leopards_ are mighty and ferocious predators. _Cats_ are diminutive, domesticated pets. These spots aren’t just for _show_ , dammit! They mark me as a descendant of a powerful daemon lineage, half-human or not. And Hohenheim may be an asshat and a half, but I’m still— What are you doing, Rockbell?”

During the course of his little rant, Winry allowed her pace to slow until she’s fallen into step with him. With his ears perked proud and upright as they are, you could measure their heights to be equal—an improvement from when they first met, considering his forehead once only came up to her nose. And it’s nice to know that, even with him being all raw power and glittering intelligence wrapped up in a delicate balance between human and not, she still has _some_ advantage on him, however small and petty it might be.

Barely able to smother her triumphant smirk, she remarks, cheekily, “I mean, _you’re_ pretty diminutive yourself.”

“WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO TINY HE CAN’T EVEN— QUIT _LAUGHING_ , YOU BITCH!”

Good thing she leans back instead of forward, letting her giggles escape to the sky rather that spill to the ground. Otherwise the weight of her backpack might just end up crushing her spine.

Up close, she can witness the way his pupils contract into thin, sharp lines with his rage. “You’re doing this on fucking purpose.”

Winry just grins. “Feel better now that you’re not sulking?”

To that, he curls to lips back to reveal milky fangs and hisses at her. Honest-to-god _hisses_ at her, a sharp, feline rasp. It’s strangely endearing, actually.

“C’mon.” She smacks him lightly in the false shoulder. “Everything’s gonna turn out alright, one way or another.”

Something sharp flashes in his gaze, harsh as the sound nails make when they rake across a chalkboard. “ _How_?” he demands, and it comes out like something breaking. “There’s _no way_ we can use the Stone now.”

“Then we’ll figure something else out,” she replies carefully. If he thinks he’s the only one upset over this discovery, then he’s wrong—but they have to keep moving forward.

Sometimes, it’s all they _can_ do.

Whatever retort he planned to make is interrupted by a distant susurration. From the bushes emerges a long, shining ribbon of a creature that immediately captures both their attention.

Foliage parts around a serpentine body, around fin-like ears that jut out from either side of its ichthyic face. Gills flutter at the joint connecting its upper and lower jaws. Six insect-like legs curl close to the front. It swirls through the air with a dancer’s graces, silver and ethereal beneath the canopy’s shadow. She could swear it leaves a shimmering trail in the wake of its mysterious flight—which might just be remnants of soul vapors, and that adds a certain grotesqueness to its beauty.

“Looks like Al’s finished,” Ed mutters.

As though to confirm this, the soul-collector pauses long enough to pin them each beneath liquid ruby eyes—then whispers off into the undergrowth again.

Winry adjusts the straps of her backpack to a place where they won’t dig as painfully into her shoulders. “Awesome. Now we’ll be able to head out right away.”

It takes several paces forward and a few beats of silence before she realizes that there’s nothing and no one synchronizing with her own footsteps. Bewildered, she spins around to find him stilled in place a fair distance from her, fangs peeking out from the flummoxed part in his lips as though he were planning to say something but aborted it at the last second and doesn’t quite know what to do now that his moth is opened. There is something on his face she can’t quite identify from this far away, open but unreadable, as though he suddenly has no idea what to make of her—and whether this is a positive thing or not, she doesn’t know.

“...what?”

“How... How can you be so _hopeful_?”

Now it is Winry’s turn to open her mouth and have nothing come out. Being on the receiving end of such a heavy gaze, such a heavy question—it leaves her pulse quickening in her veins.

The light shifts around them. A stray sunbeam knifes out from the canopy to stripe him in light, set him aflame in a splendor of golden-red. He looks the same way he did when they first met—untouchable and brilliant, like a hero that leaped from the pages of some beautifully-illustrated fantasy because he didn’t care for being confined by ink and paper any longer. And in that moment, he looks at her as though he’s just discovered the treasure at the end of his epic quest and it was even more wondrous than he thought.

Oh boy.

Feeling her face heat, she looks away. “W-Well, _someone_ in this group has to be!” Okay, that’s a gross underestimation of Al. Not to mention Mr. Mustang’s unfaltering resolve borders on optimism sometimes... Honestly, it’s usually just Ed and Miss Riza who always fear the worst. “I mean—just hurry up! We have to get the magic rock back from that grody homunculus guy.”

As she quickly spins on her heel, she hears Ed call after her, “Alchemy is _not_ magic! It’s _science_!”

Thank _god_ for normalcy! “You make ethereal beams of light pop out when you clap your hands and materialize weapons,” she calls over her shoulder, “How is that _not_ magic?”

Footsteps crunch across grass in pursuit. “ _Your_ time has self-propelled horseless carriages.”

She leaps a stray root that’s been known to trip her in the past—not this time, sucker! “Those are _cars_ , Ed.”

“Well those ‘cars’ are more magic than alchemy is!”

“The machines that run on internal combustion engines are more magic than a prosthetic arm that runs on daemon-essence?”

“The fuck is an ‘internal combustion engine’?”

“It’s—” She stops, realizing that if she takes the time to try and explain modern technology to a being who was born literally five-hundred-and-fifty years before she was, they are going to be here all day. And then she really will be crushed beneath the weight of her pack. “Never mind.”

All of a sudden, he’s next to her, falling into step at her side as easy as breathing, his eyes shining golden with a mischievous brand of triumph. “Ha! So you _admit_ your world is weirder!”

“No weirder than a world where short half-daemons run around.”

“I AM NOT SHORT!”

Another throe of laughter takes her, bright and shining in her lungs, summer-warm as it bubbles up along the line of her throat. It’s been a good three days since she was able to laugh like this—these days, her time spent in her own era is dedicated to catching up on a schoolwork, and it’s only once she slips back into a past where magic and monsters coexist alongside the mundane that she suddenly has the opportunity to unwind. Perhaps there’s something telling about that, but it’s not something she’s going to ruminate on too deeply.

For now, it’s best to focus on the journey ahead, long and arduous and fraught with peril. In her mind’s eye, the road is a winding, serpentine thing that twists around with a living will, winds itself into knots and shifts beneath their feet. Enemies make the ground slope in sharp, exhausting angles as they forced to trek up an unforgiving incline. That crimson light winking from afar like a star in the heavens, the very thing that tantalized them into their quest in the first place, seems to only retreat further no matter how much progress they make. And then there’s the homunculi, acting as a great, looming mountain range that stands against the horizon like sharp-peaked shadows, hazy from a distance but the slopes steep to the point of deadly once you reach the base. There is not a step they will take that won’t leave them with bated breath, with pounding hearts and the taste of danger staining their tongues black.

But somehow, some way, she has a feeling that they’ll be okay. Maybe that is optimism, but—the old legends said the Risembool Well has an ancient power sleeping dormant in it. And in her experience, even dry wells have the power to grant wishes.

So Winry makes a silent wish, locks it deep in her heart, and moves forward with Ed at her side.

* * *

The story goes like this—

Once upon a time, there was a girl who overcame time and a boy who was just overcome.

**Author's Note:**

> So. Anyone wanna guess which anime I've been obsessed with recently?
> 
> Seriously though, this was an idea that I had sometime back in January and ended up scrapping it. Decided to revisit it again because, as I said before, I'm an absolute sucker for AUs and have no self-control. This is my first time doing a crossover, so I hope you all enjoyed.


End file.
